CHAPTER EIGHT

The Road from Kyros to Escator, the Central Kingdoms

T hey left Kyros within the hour, traveling in a largely unspeaking train. Ishbel rode her own horse: Maximilian had very pointedly not suggested she ride with him. Worse, Garth now rode at Maximilian’s side, exchanging the very occasional soft word with him, while Ishbel was left to trail behind, several of the Emerald Guard close behind her, doubt and suspicion riding at her side.

Ishbel herself felt sick with fear and with regret. Fear that Maximilian suspected her; regret that she had so foolishly lied to him.

She wished beyond anything else she had not been stupid enough to lie to him. He was a generous man and would have understood, but Ishbel knew Maximilian well enough now to know that he did not tolerate lies.

How stupid she was! A fool!

She had no idea what was happening to them, why Allemorte and Borchard had died, and what purpose their deaths served anyone save to turn the entire Central Kingdoms against Maximilian, and Maximilian against her.

Was that the purpose? Ishbel shuddered, her hands entangled in the horse’s mane to help keep her balance, wishing quite desperately she was safe behind Maximilian, clinging to his warm, strong body, listening to his occasional laugh as he pointed something out to her. She wondered if someone was trying to drive them apart, create a wall of suspicion between them, so that the Great Serpent’s wishes could be thwarted.

She disentangled one of her hands, sliding it under her cloak to rest against her belly. She was almost four months pregnant now, and she could just, barely, feel the new hard roundness of her belly. It terrified her, this baby. It complicated everything, and with its growth Ishbel wondered if it drove the Great Serpent further and further from her perception as her swelling womb upset the delicate coil of her intestines.

Without that, without the Coil perfectly aligned within her, Ishbel feared she would never sense the Great Serpent again.

Worse, she feared she’d never lie close to Maximilian again, wrapped in his arms, listening to him whisper endearments, and telling her how much he wanted the baby.

Ishbel didn’t know what to think and was confused by her emotions. Losing Maximilian’s regard was starting to appear as frightful as losing her life at Serpent’s Nest.

Even worse.

Ishbel felt completely friendless in this world. Maximilian kept his back to her for most of the time, and his face and voice coldly neutral on those occasions when he couldn’t avoid speaking to her. Garth was now back at Maximilian’s side, and as careful as her husband not to look her way.

Ishbel didn’t know what to do—she didn’t know what she wanted to do.

They traveled westward for two days, stopping at wayside inns at night. Ishbel’s nights were as friendless as her days. Maximilian still shared a bed with her, but he did not curl about her, keeping a vast physical and emotional distance from her within their bed.

On the second night out of Kyros, Ishbel tried to broach that distance.

They had eaten in the public room of the inn, and were now preparing for bed. They’d been completely silent since entering their chamber.

Ishbel had stripped down to her undershift when, heart thudding in mouth, she decided to speak.

“Maxel, please talk to me. What can I say to you? I had nothing to do with Borchard’s death! I know nothing about why—”

“Then why were you there so soon after his murder? I’d left you asleep in bed, exhausted. Why, then, were you up and running about when Borchard lay dying?”

Because the Great Serpent woke me, Maxel, and said there was a murderer in the house. “I had a bad dream…I dreamed you were in danger. I…I had to—”

“I am sick of your lies, Ishbel. I am sorry, I am tired. I just want to sleep.”

He turned away.

Ishbel wanted to scream at him; instead the tears spilled over and she turned her back as well, rubbing at her eyes. She waited until she heard Maximilian get into bed, then she blew out the lamp and slid in the other side.

They lay there for hours, both awake, staring up into the dark emptiness.

Maximilian had finally dropped off, and was lost in a deep, dreamless sleep when a noise disturbed his peace.

It sounded a little like Ishbel, crying out in fright.

He didn’t immediately respond. He was too tired, too disheartened, too confused to leap immediately into wakefulness.

Ishbel cried out again, and this time he felt her body shift violently on the bed.

Finally, and now with some urgency, Maximilian roused himself.

The room was lit, something he would remember later as strange.

Armed men surrounded their bed, eight or nine of them, dressed in the colors and badges of Malat of Kyros.

One of the men held a struggling Ishbel in his arms.

“King Malat sends greetings,” said this man. “He begs me to tell you that he wishes you to suffer the same pain as he suffers. He hopes that one day, as you remember the night you lost your wife, you also regret what you did to Malat, in Kyros. Take a long, hard look at your wife, Maximilian, for it is the last sight you will ever have of her.”

Maximilian started to move, seeing only the terror and panic on Ishbel’s face, and the brutal hand of her abductor gripping tight about her belly. But just as he swung toward the side of the bed, something came down hard on the back of his head, and he knew no more.